


A Smile Is Worth a Thousand Words

by fredbassett



Series: Stephen/Ryan series [107]
Category: Primeval
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8268703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: There are times when a smile says far more than words ever can.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rain_sleet_snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/gifts).



Lorraine watched as Ryan made his way up the central walkway from the atrium, his progress as silent and graceful as a hunting cat, despite the heavy army-issue boots. His movements were unhurried and his face was impassive, as difficult to read as a marble statue.

A shiver danced lightly down Loraine’s spine as she wondered how many times the captain had delivered bad news to wives, girlfriends and others during a long career in the military. Would he deliver the worst kind of news at work, amidst the barely restrained chaos of the Anomaly Research Centre, or would he choose quieter surroundings?

As though aware of her eyes on him, Ryan looked up and smiled, and that smile succeeded in chasing the small knot of tension out of the pit of her stomach where it had been lodged for the last five weeks. Bad news was never delivered with a smile. Lorraine had learned that much in the time she’d spent around soldiers.

Ryan quickened his steps, appearing in the door of her office moments later. “There’s nothing to worry about. He’s home in one piece and will phone you as soon as the de-brief is over.”

“Is he…?” Lorraine hesitated, groping for the right word. What she wanted to know was whether the words ‘one piece’ covered her boyfriend’s mental as well as physical state. She had no idea what sort of operation he’d been involved in and couldn’t even begin to guess what sort of state he was in, but ‘one piece’ was obviously a good start.

Ryan smiled again, and she felt reassured. “He sounded fine.”

Fine was good, She’d take fine, any day.

Now all she had to do was wait for her phone to ring.

****

By 2pm, her phone had remained obstinately silent. She had to attend a meeting at the Home Office at 4pm with Lester and they would need to leave shortly.

“I can handle this myself,” Lester commented, briefcase in hand.

Lorraine shook her head. “Captain Ryan said Niall was fine. That’s good enough for me.” She picked up her bag and smoothed down her skirt. “He’ll ring as soon as he can, I’m sure.”

She received a text at 3.45pm, just as she was walking through the main doors at Marsham Steet. She glanced apologetically at Lester. “I’ll follow you up, if I may?”

He nodded, a slight smile on his aquiline face. Having a boyfriend of his own in Special Forces made Lester a thoroughly understanding boss on such matters. Loraine slipped back outside the door and checked her phone.

On train to London. Arriving 5.30. Can you talk? N. x

Lorraine quickly scrolled through her contacts list and answered his text with a call. “I’m just about to go into a meeting in Marsham Street,” she said, forcing herself to sound casual when in reality she wanted to do the verbal equivalent of flinging her arms around his neck. “It’s scheduled to last two hours.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said and cut the call. He wasn’t one for long phone chats, and she had meeting notes to take.

In response to Lester’s slightly raised eyebrow as she joined him in the meeting room, Lorraine simply smiled and nodded, knowing that would convey all necessary information.

The meeting was as dull as she’d expected, with as much horse-trading as the Appleby Fair, but ultimately, Lester obtained the additional funding he’d been hoping for and an assurance that none of their resources would be cut in the next financial year. It was more than they’d hoped for and even Lester allowed himself a slight smile of satisfaction, just the merest quirk of his lips, but it was enough to let her know that the outcome had exceeded his expectations as well.

As they made their way back down to the foyer, Lorraine reflected on how much could be conveyed with even the smallest of smiles, and she quickened her steps as they left the building.

Blade was waiting for on the pavement, leaning against one of the black bollards that lined the entire frontage of the building. He was dressed casually in a pair of faded black denim jeans, a black sweater that had seen better days, and the dark green fleece jacket she’d bought him for his last birthday. His ever-present five o’clock shadow was pronounced enough to be classed as a short beard and even his hair was slightly longer than usual. Her appraising look took in the fact that he was thinner and more tanned than when he’d left, but the most important thing was that there were no new shadows in his vivid green eyes and his smile was wide and unforced.

“Sir,” he said, inclining his head to Lester.

“Good to have you back, Richards,” Lester said, his own smile equally genuine. “Lorraine has accrued an excess of overtime while you’ve been away. Do try to convince her than I can very easily dispense with her services tomorrow.” To Lorraine, he added, “I’ve already marked you as out on the holiday chart.”

As Lester walked off in the direction of Whitehall, Lorraine slipped her arms around Blade’s waist and tilted her head up for a kiss, not caring who was watching. He pressed his lips lightly to hers and returned her hug. It was as demonstrative as they normally got in public but, to her surprise, he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

When they finally parted, she saw mischief dancing in his eyes. “Well, that’s your reputation in tatters,” he commented.

“Nonsense. I’ve just snogged a gorgeous bloke in the street. I imagine my reputation has already gone up several notches.”

Blade’s smile slid into a grin. “Happy to oblige. Fancy a drink?” When she nodded, he slipped his hand into hers and they set off to stroll in the direction of the river.

The afternoon was warm, despite the slight breeze that ruffled the muddy brown water of the Thames and when they reached the Morpeth Arms on Millbank, Lorraine was happy to drape her jacket over the back of one of the chairs on the pavement and settle down to enjoy the view of the imposing ziggurat otherwise known as the MI6 building.

“It looked better at the end of Skyfall,” Blade remarked, setting a large white wine spritzer down in front of her before lounging comfortably in a chair and sipping his beer appreciatively. “So what I have missed while I’ve been away?”

“The boiler broke down three times. According to Norman it’s a sign that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are on their way, but Lester’s more inclined to blame the Archbishop of York.”

Blade nodded as though the remark made perfect sense, which, in the context of Norman’s cosmology, it probably did. “Nice to know nothing changes.”

“No, it doesn’t. Connor managed to blow every fuse in the place last week with his latest modifications to the ADD. We could have done with you to help Norman restore the building to order. As it was, we had to suffer the attentions of the latest bunch of cowboys to win a Home Office tender by gross under-bidding.”

“Has Cutter been driving you mad?”

Lorraine rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started. I very nearly sent a confidential memo to Ryan yesterday asking for the wretched man to be put in special measures.” Office-speak for a much-needed thump. “He’s two weeks late filing reports and his last expenses claim bore a distinct resemblance to an exercise from a creative writing course.”

“But apart from that, how did you enjoy the play, Mrs Lincoln?”

“They’re mad, the lot of them. I need you back to inject just the right note of barely-veiled threat into their lives.”

“I thought that was what you usually did?”

“I must be losing my touch.”

As they sat in the early evening sun enjoying their drinks and each other’s company, the pub started to fill up with its usual mix of office workers and locals. As ever, the area outside filled up with smokers, but most kept a courteous distance away. After a large bowl of chips, a plate of tapas and another glass of wine, Lorraine was feeling distinctly mellow and at peace with the world. It therefore came as something of an unpleasant surprise when she saw a well-dressed man in his early 20s, standing behind Blade’s chair, quickly and skilfully dip his hand into another man’s pocket and relieve him of his iPhone 6.

Lorraine kept her expression strictly neutral, but something must have given her away as Blade raised one eyebrow questioningly in a manner that would have earned him Lester’s respect.

“I’ve got this,” she said quietly.

Without looking at her mark, Lorraine stood up, making it look like she was heading inside the pub to the ladies. The pickpocket brushed past her, transferring the stolen phone to the pocket of his own jacket. Lorraine took hold of the man’s hand and smoothly twisted it up his back, digging her fingers inexorably into the vulnerable nerves of his wrist. He gave a high-pitched squeal and dropped to his knees, helped on his way by a swift and brutal lick behind one knee, delivered by the toe of one of Lorraine’s black suede ankle boots.

Blade obligingly shuffled his chair sideways to give her more room.

The man whose pocket had just been picked stared at them in amazement.

“If you look in his right hand jacket pocket you’ll find your phone,” Lorraine said. “Would someone mind calling the police?”

The sudden violence had left everyone frozen to the spot, until a man in his late 30s who Lorraine recognised from her early stint in M16, stepped up and dipped his hand into pickpocket’s jacked and brought out the iPhone, held carefully between his finger and thumb.

The man who’d just been robbed gasped and promptly patted his own pockets as if hoping the phone might have somehow reappeared there without the need for a scene.

“It’s your phone, Pete,” one of the man’s friends said.

The man called Pete reached out and took hold of the phone, looking as though he felt it might bite him if he wasn’t careful.

“He picked your pocket,” Lorraine said, beginning to wonder if, apart from the man from MI6, the rest of them were all terminally stupid.

“Can we help?” another voice enquired, sounding faintly amused.

She looked around to see two Police Community Support Officers standing on the pavement, staring down at the man she’d forced to his knees. “Pickpocket,” she said, letting the man stand up, but still keeping hold of his wrist, just in case he decided to bolt. To allay any threatening vibes she might still be giving off, Lorraine smiled widely, and made sure it reached her eyes.

The two PCSO probably knew exactly what she was trying to do, but they both played like nice puppies and returned her smile.

“He nicked my phone!” the man called Pete exclaimed, having just retrieved his brain from the lost property office.

“The lady grabbed him before he could get away,” the MI6 man supplied.

The two PCSOs kept commendably straight faces when Lorraine discreetly flashed her work ID pass at them. Short statements were taken and then the pickpocket was marched off to the nearest station and Pete bought her, Blade and the man from MI6 a drink by way of thanks. Lorraine remembered his name now. He was called Greg Lowe and he was a specialist in Middle Eastern languages. He was far too discreet to ask where she was working now, so they exchanged brief pleasantries before he returned to his group.

Lorraine leaned back in her chair and sipped her wine. “That wasn’t quite how I’d envisaged spending the evening.”

Blade smiled. “Great take-down.”

“Thanks for letting me handle it.”

“You had it covered.”

Lorraine smiled back at him. Her boyfriend was easily the most dangerous man she’d ever met, but all he’d done during the confrontation outside the pub was move his chair to give her more room to work.

It really was good to have him home again.


End file.
